I just got home from work and...

there was an issue with blood cultures and impossible veins, a guy who kept standing in his bed to "stretch his microtubules"/show his asshole to everyone, and a nurse whose feedback gave me a burst of crying in the parking lot, so I'm blogging.

This blogging has nothing to do with cinnamon whiskey. No, this blogging has to do with excavators. 

When we moved in just over 11 months ago, there was a for sale sign at the house next door to us. It was in front of a cute single family home, but there was a lady living in the front house and a guy living in the back house and about three dogs and three thousand songbirds living in the yard in between. It didn't look like anyone was going anywhere soon.

We settled in, but never really loved the place. Mainly because there is NOWHERE for us to be outside. Except for that enormous beach at the bottom of the hill.

I know, I need to shut up. But guys, when your house is 20 degrees hotter than the outside and you just want to get some fresh air while you drink your coffee and check email, you don't want to have to pack up a grass mat and make a to-go cup and take a six block journey.

Well, about three months ago, a fence went up around the house next door. And last week, an excavator moved in. I literally woke up one day, made coffee, opened the blinds, and watched as a tree swept past my window. I live on the second floor.

A couple days later I woke up thinking we were having an earthquake. But no, that was a technique the excavator uses called "drop a giant concrete mass on another giant concrete mass to get it to break apart we are geniuses."

 The day the 18-wheeler dump truck showed up was particularly terrible, and when I came home there was about a half-inch of fine dirt all over everything. Our plants, our steps, the grill, my car, our windowsills (the windows were closed), our bathtub, our fruit basket. All that dirt under that house, all that dirt in that house, all that other people's grime for probably a century got stirred up and came over uninvited. I hosed everything off, swept the dirty water into the street, and lied to myself that the worst was over.

And then I woke up one day, made coffee, opened the door to leave, and stood eye level with the excavator.

Apparently to build a house you must first build a dirt mountain at least 20 feet high. Who knew?

I was over this house demo thing the day the fence went up. When we lived in Santa Monica and Venice, we watched this happen all the time. Someone buys a lot, tears down the house, builds a complex, and their neighbors get to live in the filth of destruction and the noise of construction for a year or more. So I started looking for a new place to live... and we finally found an awesome one.

Once again, we're moving, 363 days after our last move. We've got a 2 bedroom house with a yard and a deck and french doors that let the outside in and neighbors who aren't planning to demolition their home in the next 12 months. We're pretty much the same distance from the beach, but it'll be Redondo Beach instead of Hermosa Beach.

Best of all, no excavators in sight.